Daisies.
It's a nice place. Peaceful.
He looks down at the flowers that he carries for a brief moment. Above him the sky is pure blue, not a cloud in the sky though a gentle breeze shivers through the leaves of the pink blossomed tree above his head.
He approaches carefully.
Mindfully.
Respectfully.
And then he stops.
His eyes take in the assortment of graveyard markers nestled amidst the overlong grass. Some stand up straight, pointing to the heavens, others tilt dangerously, drunkenly, pushed over by elemental things, great age or just poor foundations.
He doesn't pay them too close attention, he's only here to pay his respects to one.
It's a small plot of land, known to few but he'd managed to get the location out of Fury. She's not here though, she's still at the bottom of a cliff on some far away planet but she's remembered and mourned here. By a few judging by the collection of flowers, small soft toys gathered around the grave, some with accompanying messages of sympathy and gratitude.
He reads the words engraved on the smooth grey marble.
NATASHA ROMANOFF: DAUGHTER. SISTER. AVENGER.
He stares at the Black Widow insignia and lets out a shaky sigh. He slowly approaches the grave and he's careful not to put a step out of place, he doesn't want to crush any other tribute that's been left here. He lies his flowers at the base of the gravestone. White daisies, their long stems tied together by a length of red twine. The breeze ruffles the petals of the daisies that survived the trip here in his backpack. No doubt he'll have to scoop out the bruised ones that didn't, later
He straightens up. Pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
Remembers. Or at least he tries to.
Red hair. Green eyes. A slow smile. Those he does remember.
The rest of it?
It's like seeing her through a haze.
Hints, flashes. A colour. A scent. A word. A phrase. Ephemeral. Fleeting.
Like they happened in a dream of some kind. Distant and far away. Uncertain.
Shuri restored a large part of his memory back in Wakanda but she also told him there would still be some blanks. He's been wiped so many times, some of his memories are gone permanently, including his memories of Natasha Romanoff.
Well not all of them.
Some are there but they're like patchwork pieces that haven't been stitched together properly.
Vignettes. Scenarios. No real stories he can confidently rely on.
Odessa. A scientist. A mission for both of them, one to protect, the other to eliminate. He'd succeeded and until he saw her on the bridge with Steve and Sam during the events of Project Insight, he thought he'd eliminated them both.
Of course he hadn't. The Widows were trained to be the best. He should know, he trained a few of them himself during the bad old days. It shouldn't have surprised him that Natasha Romanoff survived that day. And others.
Until Vormir.
Another sigh. Was Natasha one of those he'd helped train? Possibly. Probably. He can't say for sure. It's not as if he can ask her. Back then, one face blended into another. The mind wipe procedure took care of the rest.
But for some reason he remembers her in Odessa. Only just. Another patchwork piece out of place.
And then there was afterwards.
After the bridge. The shot to her shoulder that should have slowed her down but didn't.
In Berlin. He was in fully fledged Winter Soldier mode and she was one of the many there to stop him. She tried. All of them tried. Only Steve succeeded. Kind of. Being knocked out in the cockpit of a falling helicopter would do that to anyone.
The airport. Trying to get to Siberia. She could've stopped them there but she didn't. He remembers the look she gave him, to them both. She didn't like what they were trying to do but she didn't stop them. They'd made their escape.
He didn't see her again after that.
In Wakanda he'd wanted to talk to her about how well they knew each other. She'd made a comment about recognising her. Was it Odessa she'd been alluding to in Berlin or something else? Washington maybe? Was there another connection? That's what's so frustrating about it all. If there was a deeper, more personal connection, he doesn't remember it.
Maybe there wasn't one.
Maybe it's just his mind playing tricks again. Wouldn't be the first time.
Whatever the reason, the explanation, she never came. He never got to find out for himself.
"Who are you?"
The sharp accented voice makes his heart momentarily jump in his chest. He slowly turns and sees her about ten feet away from him. Average height. Long loose blonde hair.. Suspicious. Narrowed eyes. Tense.
Uh oh.
He subtly braces himself. He doesn't want to get into something right here, right now but he will if he has to.
He watches the narrowed eyes suddenly open wide with recognition and that instantly puts him on his guard.
"Holy shit. It's you. Him. You're him!"
"Depends on who you think I am?" he answers though he has a pretty good idea of who she thinks he is. Like he has a pretty good idea of who she is, what she is.
"Oh my God. You were a legend in the Red Room." She strides towards him and then stops. The suspicion returns. "What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, probably. Paying my respects."
"What does the Winter Soldier want with my sister?"
Well that answers that question.
"That's not me now. I don't do that anymore. I'm Bucky. James if you prefer." He then frowns a little. "She was your sister?"
"Not by blood. Foster sister if you want to get technical but she was my sister in all the ways that matter." Her eyes go to the gravestone and away again, the glance bouncing off it as if looking at it for long enough will confirm once and for all that Natasha is indeed gone. "I miss her," she confesses.
He looks back at it.
"Yeah."
"You knew her?"
He looks back at her. Wonders how to explain it " Sort of. Not like you did, I don't think."
"You don't know?"
He slowly shrugs. "Don't remember."
"Didn't you train her in the Red Room?"
Another shrug. It feels stupid. He should know.
"Maybe."
"How can you not know? You either did or you didn't." Her voice is strident. Disbelieving.
"If you know who I am, then you know what HYDRA did to me." There's an edge to his voice that silences her for a moment. Only for a moment.
"Sorry."
He doesn't know what she's apologising for; her outburst or what HYDRA did to him all the years they had him and he decides that it isn't important.
He watches her. "You're a Widow?"
"Was. They're all gone now. Thanks to Natasha."
"How?"
She looks at him again, the softness disappears like smoke and her gaze becomes assessing, calculating. Suspicious again.
He gets it, too many questions.
"Too long and too boring to get into right now. Was that your bike I saw on my way in?"
The change in subject should give him whiplash but instead he just nods.
"Very nice. I had one similar. A long time ago."
"How old are you, twelve?" he asks her and sees the irritation that flares in her eyes anew for a second before a reluctant smile curves the corners of her mouth.
"For your information, I'm over thirty years old." She sounds almost proud of that.
"Well you look like you're twelve."
Her smile widens for a moment.
"How old are you then?" she demands, lifting her chin.
"A hundred and six." He sees her eyes widen.
"Really? No way! I thought that was just a myth, that you were recruited during the Second World War? I thought someone was pulling my leg."
"In the Red Room? No. That wasn't a myth. That was truth."
Another look his way, a little bit more respectful this time.
"Damn. You don't look a day over forty," she tells him. He rolls his eyes at her.
"Well thanks for that."
She chuckles quietly. Moves a little bit closer to him but he notices that she still keeps her distance.
"What's your name, kid?" he asks her. He can almost feel her bristle at the 'kid' part.
"My name is Yelena Belova. And I can assure you that I am not a kid. My looks are deceiving."
Another glance her way. "Uh-huh."
"You want me to demonstrate?" she challenges.
Bucky lifts both hands up, palms out "No, you're good. I believe you."
Another narrowed look. "You were pulling my leg?"
Another slow shrug. "It's been known to happen."
"Who would have guessed that the Winter Soldier has a sense of humour?"
"Stranger things have happened, kid….sorry… Yelena. I can call you that, right?"
"Of course." Another pause and Bucky feels the breeze tease at his hair. He needs to get it cut and soon. Just the possibility of it, of being able to make that choice for himself feels deeply satisfying.
"So what do you do now that you're no longer the Winter Soldier?" she asks.
"Not sure yet. Bit of this and that. What about you?"
"This and that." The tone, the abruptness of it catches his attention.
"Such as?" he enquires and waits for her to elaborate. She doesn't.
"Like I said, this and that."
Code for mind your own business, he guesses. Fair enough.
"Are you an Avenger now?" she asks suddenly.
"Hell no. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Just curious." Another pause. "How about Clint Barton. You know him?"
Something prickles up and down the length of Bucky's spine at her second question. He looks at her again. Notices the very slight change in body language, the tension that all of a sudden thrums through her. He gets the distinct impression that his answer to that question is very important to her. Why, he has no idea but he's getting the feeling that something else may be going on here. You live as long as he has and you learn to trust your gut.
"Again, why do you want to know?" he asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"It's a simple question."
"A rather specific one don't you think?"
"With a simple answer. Either yes or no. Which is it?" The stridence is returning. For a moment he just looks at her.
"No. I don't know him."
"Would you tell me if you did?"
His steady gaze is her reply.
She huffs out a moody sigh. "Fine. Forget I asked." She turns her attention back to Natasha's grave, the matter seemingly forgotten.
He won't forget.
He walks away, his stride slow and measured. He squints up at the clear blue sky, feeling the breeze brush against his skin again. His bike is still parked up where he'd left it. As is the backpack.
He unhooks the helmet from the handlebars then turns to look back the way he's just come. She's still where he left her, staring at the grave and he wonders for a moment what she's thinking about.
As he slides the crash helmet onto his head and tightens the strap, he thinks about what lies ahead for him.
Find somewhere affordable to live. Make an appointment with the psychiatrist he's been court ordered to see. Get a haircut, finally.
Oh and give Clint Barton a call. See if the name of Yelena Belova rings a bell.
Something tells him it just might.
END.